Charmolypi [S.H]

Chapter One

Notes:

This first chapter has a little more than 3k words.
Reader's point of view.
*Not edited yet.
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Queasy.

That's how you felt. And as you finally hooked your thumb over the trigger of your father's most beloved possession, a brand new .375 Magnum, that feeling completely swallowed you whole, burning all your senses.

Your father would strangle you alive if he knew you'd somehow managed to get your hands on his most valued item.

Whatever.

You let out a shuddery breath and tried to will away the tension eating you alive. Focus. You thought back to all those old action movies you hated but only watched as a kid to please your dad and tried to reposition yourself into the appropriate weapon holding stance, the same one all those cops and special agents used. Both hands on the firearm, although yours were a bit shaky, and your right leg slightly in front of your left one. The sickly dried yellow grass, most definitely a fire hazard, crunched from beneath you as you adjusted yourself. With a final shaky exhale, you closed your eyes tight, turned your head away and squeezed the trigger real tight.

"Dammit," you hissed through your chattering teeth. You missed your target, an empty can of soda. Again. God only knows where your bullet had landed.

You had, however, achieved at startling an entire flock of birds into flight and ruining the peaceful quietness that usually settled around here.

"Stupid, so fucking stupid", you kept muttering to yourself as you made your way to the fallen tree trunk perfectly positioned in the middle of the empty field that served as the holding stand for your weekly practice shooting targets. Harshly grabbing the red faded can you threw it across the field. "Fucking useless piece of shit". You knew deep down that it wasn't the poor soda can's fault, that it was yours by being an idiot and closing your eyes, but it was easier to pin the blame on anything else other than yourself.

You placed the gun back onto the strap around your waist. This was your third time coming into this area, one you'd gratefully discovered on a late night drive through Hawkins, to practice your shooting skills and your third time failing miserably. You considered trying one last time but the early morning cold that came with the month of April was starting to get to you. Maybe next time you'd remember to bring a warmer jacket.

You made your way back to where you took your shot and bent down to pick up your old worn bag that you had left on the ground. The straps were barely holding together. You carefully unzipped it, extra aware of the zipper that's holding on for dear life, and pulled out a water bottle.

As you took a sip, a well deserved one in your opinion, you took in your surroundings. It's bizarre, you thought. It always felt like that when you came around here. It's quiet. Too quiet. A much appreciated relief from the loudness that you now associate with the small town of Hawkins, least, what remains of it.

Between the murders of high schoolers, the manhunt for Eddie Munson and the horrific earthquake that completely ripped through the town, Hawkins had become a carcass, a cold empty shell completely devoid of all the greatness it once used to be.

The incidents had drawn in attention from all over America. From The New York Times to The Washington Post, reporters from all over the country had flown in to invade Hawkins in search of new front page cover worthy scandals to draw in their readers.

The constant come and go of ambulances as they rushed people in critical conditions to Hawkins Hospital or police cars taking in new criminals, filled the town with a never ending cycle of head throbbing loud sirens.